


All I Want for Christmas is You

by CptEmie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blackwall lookin fresh as hell, Blackwall the gentleman, Chivalry, Christmas AU, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Cigarettes, Confessions, Constance being a nervous wreck, Cousins, F/M, Family Problems, Fluff, Friendly advice, Office crush, Slow Burn, courting, liquid courage, she moves fast he moves slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CptEmie/pseuds/CptEmie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU for my canon Quizzy Constance Trevelyan where her cousin/roommate Dorian convinces her to get dressed up for the company Christmas party in order to impress the coworker she has a crush on. Little does she know, Blackwall is dressed up and in attendance for almost the same reason - but his reservations about pushing their relationship past their working friendship is starting to get in the way of things. </p><p>Heavy dedications to pixiedurango, who helped push me through my writer's block. Thanks, P!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            “You’re not dressed,” Dorian observed, emerging from his bedroom.

            Constance pursed her lips at him. “I’m not going.”

            “Of course you are.” He straightened his tie in the mirror on the wall and ran a few fingers through his hair. “You’ve had your dress hanging on your wardrobe door for a week already.”

            “I changed my mind.” She drew her robe a little tighter around her waist and dropped her head onto the arm of the couch. “I’ll end up hanging around you and Bull all night and then coming home alone when you decide to go to his place. It’s depressing. At least if I stay home I can order take out and start a Netflix marathon.”

            Without a word, Dorian tucked both hands around her waist and hauled her off the couch. He wasn’t quite strong enough to pick her up in his arms, but he was strong enough to drag her a few yards down the hall to her room. “Get dressed this instant,” he ordered, shoving her through the doorway. “I did not go through the trouble of helping you pick out shoes for you to _not_ take his breath away.”

            “I’m not taking anyone’s breath away,” she threw him a dirty look, but took her dress off its hanger. It really was a fabulous dress. The perfect shade of deep red with the perfect plunging neckline that showed off her not oversized but not at all small breasts. She had already put on a plunging bra when she decided she didn’t want to chance humiliating herself at this Void taken party. The dress even had little cap sleeves to help take the emphasis off the mottled skin tone of her arms, which she completely hated.

            Dorian stood in the doorway with his arms crossed, making damn sure that she was getting ready. “That dress is the sexiest thing you own,” he pointed out as she slipped it over her head. “I’ll be surprised if he manages to scrape his jaw off the ground.”

            “Stop talking like that,” she snapped, turning towards her bureau. “I’m going because you want me too, not because of…” she stared blindly at the tray of earrings she’d pulled out that morning. “Not to flirt.”

            He strode up behind her and picked up a pair of dangling gold earrings that looked like flowers falling off their vine. “Pink lipstick,” he told her, looping the earrings through her ears. “And the dark blue purse. The one that looks like midnight.”

            “You’re being awfully bossy,” she teased, digging for the aforementioned lipstick. “Are you still afraid to let me dress myself?”

            “I would never let you dress alone for something like this,” he pointed out. “It’s more important to you than you want to admit, and you know you like my help.”

            “If you weren’t family, I’d probably have locked you out of my room by now.” She scowled at him in the mirror, but did as he said. He had far better fashion sense than her, and she _did_ want to dress well tonight. She was stressed over going because she _did_ want to impress him, and she hated how right Dorian was about how she was digging her heels in.

            He was a vision in that deep purple and gray tie and vest combination, and he knew it. He had no one to impress but his own partner, but he was going to make sure that every other man in the office was going to pale by comparison anyway. He inspected her while she pulled her shoes on and smiled warmly. “A vision to rival Andraste herself,” he assured her.

            “Let’s go before I change my mind,” she insisted. Out in the hall she transferred her essentials into her midnight blue clutch and took her comfortable leather jacket off of the coat rack.

            Immediately, Dorian was removing the jacket from her grip and shoving a long black wrap into her hands. “Be slightly cold, and get _his_ jacket,” he told her with a wink.

            Constance groaned from deep in the back of her throat, rolled her eyes, and threw the wrap around her shoulders. Between the skirt of her dress falling just above her knees and just a wrap for her shoulders, she was sure to be freezing. At least the walk back to the apartment wasn’t far. She would just warm up on the couch when she got home.

            There was a dusting of snow on the sidewalk when they left their building, and the skies were threatening more. The Skyhold Corporation had rented out one of the swankiest bars in town for their company Christmas party, and it was a mere three blocks from where Dorian and Constance lived.

            As soon as they walked in the door, Dorian was consumed by hellos and hugs from their coworkers. Despite having an obscure job title and being in charge of things that no one quite understood, Dorian was probably one of the most popular employees of Skyhold Corps.

            Constance slipped away in the melee of affection, heading straight for the bar and shaking her head. He would be busy for hours now, and she was resolved to have at least two drinks in her before she even allowed herself to _think_ about looking for Blackwall.

            “Manhattan,” she told the bartender when she asked her what she wanted, and she plunked her card down on the counter to open a tab that was sure to be much more than she intended to spend that night.

            “An impressive drink to start the night with, my lady,” said the deep voice that came up next to her.

            Constance sucked in an involuntary breath when she saw him: A light blue button down shirt open at the collar under a wide lapeled suit jacket, with his hair down and tucked behind his ears. Maker, he looked even better than she’d thought he would.

            “Blackwall…” she swallowed a tiny sigh. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

            He offered her a smile and ordered a scotch from the bartender when she delivered Constance’s Manhattan. “Varric is under the impression that socializing would be good for be,” he shrugged a little. “I’m perfectly okay with letting the company buy me a nice dinner, even if I’m drinking on my own dime.” He handed the bartender his card when his drink was delivered and added, “If you could put her drink on my tab, I’d appreciate it.”

            Constance cocked her head to one side and offered him a lopsided smile. “You don’t have to do that.”

            “I know,” he smiled back. “I wanted to.”


	2. Chapter 2

            They stood in silence for a moment, sipping their drinks and purposefully averting their eyes. Maker, but she looked like sin – absolute sin incarnate. If he’d ever seen a desire demon in person, it was her.

            Constance had lost all nerve and ability to speak at this point. She should just hide herself in a corner and people watch for the rest of the night. Or sit a few feet away from Varric and listen to his stories. At least then no one would notice if she clammed up.

            When she chanced to glance at him, he was staring at the bottles behind the bar, hoping that she wouldn’t notice that he was using the mirror to look at her instead. She caught his eyes when she went to do the very same thing, and they shared a mutual guilty blush.

            “So…you came with Dorian?” He finally broke the silence.

            “Oh,” she huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Well, he _is_ my roommate.” She was absolutely, positively, not going to point out that he had just admitted to looking for her. She was just going to keep the blood pounding in her ears to herself.

            He raised one eyebrow at her incredulously. “That must make for some interesting stories.”

            “You have no idea.” She laughed again and shook her head. “Also, he’s my cousin. So I have a lifetime’s worth of embarrassing stories about him.”

            “I bet.” He allowed himself a small smile. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, in the mirror or right next to him. Her perfect curves outlined in the same red that pinups wore for lipstick – legs left in full view to taunt and entice anyone who dared to look. He must look a mess to her. He didn’t even own a tie. He should have gone out and bought one, but he hadn’t thought about what to wear thoroughly enough for it to even dawn on him. His old jacket was far out of style now, and the cuffs of his shirt (which were thankfully hidden) were starting to fray at the edges.

            Constance couldn’t – wouldn’t? – look away. The colour of his shirt brought out his eyes, and the broken-in black jacket only made his shoulders look broader. She tugged at her dress self consciously and wished she’d worn something that covered her a little bit more. Her eyes roamed aimlessly across his chest and down to his trim waist before she caught herself staring and felt her ears turn pink. “It’s…uh…a nice night,” she tried.

            “Huh?” He looked startled at the quietness of the comment, but recovered with surprising grace. “Aye. Just a bit of snow. Lovely for a night so close to Christmas.”

            Constance’s wrap and purse were now lying on the bar next to her, and she was toying with the stem of her drink glass. Despite having a drink 8 inches away from her, her throat was completely dry. He was so close, smelled like musk and a hint of something clean, and he was actually smiling. It made her skin tingle and her mind go blank. Maker’s breath, she’d had a crush on him for at least a year now: almost since the day he’d started at Skyhold. She’d stopped in her tracks when she’d passed him in the hall, and he nodded politely as he walked by her. Dorian had teased her mercilessly for a week for the dreamy look on her face.

            Blackwall squeezed his eyes shut and (even though he knew he shouldn’t) he dove into the deep end. “You look beautiful.” His voice was definitely huskier than he meant it to be, and he immediately put his glass to his lips to prevent himself from saying something else embarrassing. Of course she knew how lovely she looked – how could she not? She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room, if not the city or even the state. To him, she was the most beautiful woman in the world; even if he would never admit it out loud.

            “Oh…uh…” she blushed almost as red as her dress, and it stretched from her ears to halfway down her chest. “Thank you.” She couldn’t even form sentences around him. She felt like a silly schoolgirl, flushing and stammering. She needed to get her nerve up if she was going to keep him talking to her – and she was _going_ to keep him talking to her.

            She finished her drink in one large gulp (very unladylike, but she needed the courage) and leaned a little closer to him. “You clean up rather nicely, also.”

            He cleared his throat and genuinely hoped that his beard hid his flushed cheeks. She was trying to flag down the bartender again, and he stuck his hand out for her, immediately catching the woman’s attention. He found himself bold enough to order her another drink, and was pleased with himself when she smiled and thanked him. A few more of those smiles and he’d be putty in her hands. Andraste’s flaming pyre, who was he trying to kid? He’d do anything for her, least of all buy her a few drinks. He would have to walk away by the time she finished this one, or he’d risk not being strong enough to leave her side. He was a selfish, selfish bastard and if he stayed by her side too long he’d never leave her. But she surely had other people to visit with. She was awfully friendly with Cullen, and she would be better off spending her night with _him_ , and not some crusty old man.

            Over Blackwall's shoulder, Constance saw Dorian waggle his eyebrows at her and shoot her a dirty grin. Bull was next to him, giving her a thumbs up and a wide smile. She managed not to make any rude gestures at them, but immediately looked away and concentrated on tracing the scratches and dents in the bar. She was awful at flirting – she always had been. And tonight it was dreadful because she was bound to drive him away and make it impossible to ever have a (relatively) normal conversation with him ever again. She was going to muck it up, and that would be the end of it.

            Dorian was waving his arms trying to get her attention again, and she couldn’t quite see what he was mouthing at her. But a moment later she figured out that he was pointing towards the other end of the room, where a half dozen couples were dancing slowly to a popular tune playing on the radio. He was pointing between them and Blackwall, making exaggerated expressions with his eyes.

            Constance had just a split second to make her decision. The song had only just started, but if she waited too long the opportunity would be gone. So she took a long sip of her favourite drink, and fixed her eyes directly on Blackwall’s. It was now or never. And if it was never, at least she would know for sure. “I’m going to put my things on this table,” she motioned to the little bar table a few feet away. “And then you’re going to dance with me.”

            He almost choked on his drink, watching her walk the short distance to the table and deposit her drink, wrap and purse there. She turned back to him and held out her hand, and his heart started pounding. Maker knew why she was even asking – why she bothered with him at all. But Void take him, he couldn’t deny her anything.

            Blackwall put his drink down next to hers and took her small hand in his, leading her over to where a few of their coworkers had created a makeshift dance floor. His pulse was sounding in his ears and he was sure she’d be able to see his heart beating out of his chest. He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be sending her off to talk to a man who was worthy of her, not keeping her to himself. But there was no turning back for him now – he was at her mercy, tonight even more than usual.

            She didn’t recognize the song, but then she didn’t listen to the radio anymore. All that mattered was that one of his hands was raising hers to just beneath their shoulders, and the other was slipping around to the small of her back. Heat was rolling off him in waves, even though he was holding her an inch further from his body than she would have preferred. She was barely eye level with his chin in the heels that Dorian had picked out for her but his face was tipped down towards her and it would have been sensationally easy to close the gap between them and just kiss him if she dared.

            But really, she would need at _least_ one more drink before she lost enough inhibitions to do something like that.

            What she did dare, was to step into him just a tiny bit more, until she was lightly pressing herself against his chest and was close enough that she had to shift slightly to one side to avoid hitting her forehead against his chin. Her pulse was pounding the second their clothing touched, and she was fairly certain that she hadn’t managed to cover the little sigh that escaped her.

            All she felt was his hand pulling her in the rest of the way so that her head came to rest on his shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

            Maker’s balls he was a _stupid_ man. He was giving in to her every whim without a single bit of resistance. Of course she must have known how much he fancied her – she’d be blind not to have noticed – but he absolutely couldn’t let it go an further than a dance or two. He’d only hurt her in the long run, and she didn’t deserve that. But she was so soft in his arms, so warm and pliant, and he swore that letting go of her would cause a physical ache.

            On the inside, Constance Trevelyan was doing a victory dance. She had fully expected him to turn her down. She had been sure that he would just shake his head, laugh, and politely declined as though it were a joke. Instead he’d taken her in his arms and shaken her every expectation. Maybe he was interested in her after all? He’d always excused himself from their conversations at work before they could become too friendly, and she’d come to assume that he didn’t have anything more than a professional interest in knowing her. But the strong hand splayed across her back was anything but professional.

            She could feel his heart pounding – just as erratically as her own – and let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Whatever this song was, it was now her all-time favourite. This close, she could smell his musky cologne and see the soft edges of his shirt, which was clearly well-loved from the slight fray at the hem. He barely ever dressed up for work, and she could tell now that he barely ever dressed up at all. It made sense, in a way. He wasn’t the most social or the biggest believer in their office’s yearly group-building getaways. She’d seen him come in on casual Fridays in t-shirts with nondescript art or small print jokes from movies that most of the others hadn’t seen. (He had a Monroeville Mall t-shirt that had made her giggle so hard she snorted the first time she’d seen it. “Dawn of the Dead’ was one of her favourite movies). She’d seen his parking space occupied by a Harley Davidson when the weather allowed. And now she could see the frugal man who didn’t replace clothes until they were falling apart, and saved cologne for special occasions. She hadn’t thought it was possible for her to like him more, but apparently, it was.

            Too soon, the song was over. He let go of her carefully, mourning the loss of her body against his and watching her hand slip out of his with a sharp pang of regret. They stood still for a second, just looking at each other, before she managed a lopsided smile. “Thanks,” she murmured.

            “Aye,” his smile matched hers. “No hardship for an old man to indulge a beautiful woman.” He regretted the forwardness of the comment almost immediately. He was supposed to be releasing her from whatever attachment she felt, not encouraging it.

            But she was beaming at him, and nervously smoothing her hands on the skirt of her dress. “C’mon,” she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm. “We have drinks to finish.”

            Blackwall tucked himself behind the table when they were back around it and tried nonchalantly to button his jacket to hide his general enthusiasm for spending time with her. (He couldn’t help it; she looked gorgeous and smelled like a summer rain.) He watched her toy with the stem of her glass and take a few sips from the drink that was far stronger than most women would have ever been able to handle. “I was taking a chance,” she admitted. “I didn’t think you danced.”

            “I did once. In another life.”

            “Oo,” she giggled. “Mysterious.”

            That earned a laugh from him, and he finished his drink with a flourish. “Not trying to be, if that means anything.”

            “It makes you _more_ mysterious.” She was teasing him, and she had no idea where this boldness was coming from. Probably from the two drinks, if she was going to be honest with herself. So, inhibitions be damned, she picked up his glass and went back to the bar with it before he could say a word of protest. If he could buy her drinks, she could buy his as well.

            Dorian slithered up next to her and nudged her shoulder a little harder than was necessary (grinning like a little shit the whole time). “You were _dancing_ ,” he was practically giggling. “You got him to _dance_.”

            “Go away.” She muttered, teeth just a little clenched.

            “Afraid he’ll think we’re together?” Dorian grinned mischeviously.

            “He knows we’re related, you prat.” Constance ordered his scotch from the bartender when she finally got the woman’s attention. “Don’t you have an overly muscled boyfriend to be snogging?”

            “Bathroom,” Dorian replied shortly. “Are you going to make a move?”

            “I’m the one who asked him to dance,” she was leaning close so Blackwall wouldn’t be able to hear them. “The ball’s in his court now.”

            “My darling, if you’re waiting for _him_ to take charge, you’ll be waiting at the gates of the Golden City still wondering if he’s going to give you a hug.”

            “Go away,” she repeated, by way of not admitting out loud that he was probably right.

            “I love you, too, my dear.” Dorian pressed an endearing, brotherly kiss to her cheek and trotted off to where Leliana and Josephine were gossiping in a corner.

            Constance glowered at his back as he walked away and cursed him colourfully in as many languages as she could manage under her breath. He was right. Of course he was right. If she wanted this to go anywhere, it would have to be her who moved it forward. She wasn’t good at this sort of thing – at all – and had only had a few long-ish relationships in her life. Her “style” of flirting was brusque and blunt, and usually ended up with men turning her away because she wasn’t girlish enough for their taste. She drank strong hard liquor, still smoked cigarettes, and swore too much. She was politically outspoken and actually had an arrest on her record for participating in a protest that had been less than peaceful. She generally said exactly what she meant instead of beating around the bush. She could be coy occasionally, but it never lasted long and was never terribly successful.

            A minute later the bartender returned with Blackwall’s drink and she exhaled a deep breath before bringing it back to him. If she wanted tonight to go anywhere, she was going to have to take it there herself.

            She sidled up to him just a tiny bit closer than she had been before and plunked his glass down in the small space between them: in order to take it, he’d have to at least brush her hand. He did – lingering perhaps a moment too long – and she bit back a smile. “So tell me, mysterious man,” she reminded herself to be brave. “What else don’t I know about you?”

            He laughed – forced and tight in his chest – and shook his head. “A great deal, I imagine.” There were a million things she didn’t know. A million things she didn’t _need_ to know. Things that would only hurt her. Things that would make her hate him – a hate he deserved, as sure as he breathed.

            “That’s why I’m asking.” She told him, bringing her drink to her lips once more. “I’m _trying_ to get to know you, but you’re making it awfully hard.”

            He mentally rolled his eyes at that. _She_ was the one making things hard. In more than one sense. And she was already breaking him down, bit by bit. A stronger man would have politely declined the dance. A better man would have bought her one drink and left her to enjoy her evening. A smarter man would have simply said hello and not intruded on her time. But he was none of those things. What he was, was sodding _crazy_ about her. “I own a motorcycle,” he tried offering up something innocuous.

            “Nope,” she shook her head playfully and a lock of hair fell loose from her carefully arranged up-do. “I knew that already.”

            He huffed a tiny sigh as quietly as he could. She’d noticed things about him, had she? Well, he’d have to try for something a little less obvious, then. “I still smoke a little, at bars or sometimes at home.”

            Constance smirked, and produced a pack of Marlboro Reds from her small purse. “Join me?” She asked, pulling out her lighter as well.

            Reds? Maker’s balls, this woman didn’t do things by halves. “You’re encouraging bad habits, my lady.”

            She quirked her head to the side and laughed lightly. “What’s with the ‘my lady’ stuff?” She asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s sexy, but it’s not something you hear every day.”

            Blackwall nearly choked on his drink. Sexy? This time he _knew_ his beard wasn’t enough to hide his blush. “Old habit.” He tried to make it sound casual, but it probably didn’t work.

            On the other side of the room, a small army of waiters were laying out the buffet that the department heads at Skyhold at paid for. The smells were wafting towards them, and they smelled absolutely divine. Their workplace was generous, to be sure, to rent out an expensive place and also put out for such a varied spread of food. He was sure Josephine was behind it – she was always the one behind office birthdays and the company sponsored summer team building – and he made a mental note to thank her for encouraging the executives to be so generous.

            “I think we have time for a smoke before eating,” he turned back to her to find her still holding out her pack of cigarettes.

            He followed her out the front door, and accepted the cigarette and lighter that she handed him, waiting just long enough to light hers as well before handing the lighter back. They huddled under the overhang of the building to avoid the breeze that was making the chilly night air even colder. They stood together in silence for a few minutes before he noticed that she was trying very hard not to shiver.

            “Oh, Maker,” he held what was left of his cigarette between his lips and slid off his suit jacket. “You’ll catch your death out here in that dress.” He settled the jacket around her shoulders and rubbed her back instinctively, before realizing with a sharp twinge in his gut that he was falling right into her hands like a love struck schoolboy.

            “Thanks,” she murmured, pulling the jacket closer around her. It smelled like him. Like that musky cologne and his fresh soap and the hint of something distinctly male that was just him. She could drown in that smell and die a happy woman. “It was warmer when I left my apartment. I guess I didn’t account for how cold it would get later tonight.”

            “Well, I’m sure the heat in your car will keep you warm enough on the way home.” His hand was still pressed to her back, and he never, ever wanted to move it ever again.

            She, however, just shrugged. “I walked. I only live a few blocks from here.”

            “You’ll freeze!”

            Constance smirked a little. “Not if I have a borrowed jacket.”

            They went back inside a moment later and found people already in line, filling their plates. She make a concerted effort to avoid noticing the animated thumbs up that Dorian was giving her, and walked back with Blackwall to put her purse on their table. She was hopeful, at this point, that she’d managed to claim his attention for the rest of the night. He hadn’t said a word to anyone but her for more than an hour now, and the only other person she’d spoken to was Dorian. Surely if he’d meant to make the rounds or to spend time with someone else, he’d have excused himself by now.

            “Shall we wait until the melee dies down?” She asked, motioning towards the swarm of people around the buffet tables.

            He chuckled. “I think it might be best.”

            “So,” she drummed her fingers on her glass. A nervous habit that he’d now picked up on. “You’re not giving me much. I know you have a Harley, and now I know you smoke. You’ve got to give me something a little juicier than that.”

            He considered her: cheeks flush from the cold and probably from drinking, tucked into his jacket and smiling up at him with eyes that absolutely sparkled in the dim lighting. It made him just a little bit bold. “It’s only fair for you to tell me something, as well.”

            She laughed at that, and it was music to his ears. “I suppose that’s fair,” she agreed, and took a long pause. “I started drinking whiskey because I thought guys would find it sexy.” She peered into her glass, unwilling to look at him even though she was doing this entirely for his reaction.

            “Um,” he cleared his throat anxiously. “Well. I admit, it is unusual.”

            “Yeah, see?” She shrugged a little, not willing to admit to herself that she was disappointed. “It never really worked the way I thought it would.”

            “No!” He said, too quickly. “I didn’t say it wasn’t, you know…effective.” Maker’s breath, what was he saying? He squeezed his eyes shut and blinked a few times deliberately. “I mean, it…uh…it works for you.” He all but groaned. He couldn’t even form coherent sentences anymore.

            But she smiled – broad and pleased – and he returned it happily. “Thanks,” she said, with a small laugh that landed somewhere in between a chuff and a giggle.


	4. Chapter 4

            When they brought their plates back to their table and sat down, he had no choice but to admit that he’d lost the battle. He was hers – entirely at her mercy – and would happily bend to any whim she might possibly have for the rest of the night.

            Something inside Constance was positively singing with the way he was staying by her side. He’d rolled up his sleeves, now that his jacket was sitting on the back of her chair, and she got a good, long look at the veins tracing up and down his well-defined forearms. The hint of a tattoo showed on his arm under the fabric of his shirt, and she had an irrational desire to trace it with her tongue.

            They ate in silence until their plates were mostly empty, and Blackwall noticed that both of their drinks were all but gone. He hesitated to offer to buy another round – he didn’t want her to be unsafe getting home. Maybe he’d just get another for himself and offer to buy her a tonic water or something. He could eat a bit more and switch to water after a third drink and be just fine getting home.

            Constance noticed their drinks at almost the same time he did. “I should probably switch to water or something,” she said, tipping back the last of her second drink. “I did walk, after all.” She pushed her chair out and reached for his glass as she stood up. “Would you like another?”

            While he wanted the courage to continue the way their night was going, he did have to drive himself home, so he acquiesced to switching to water with her and watched her walk away. There was a swing to her hips that hadn’t been there a few hours ago, and he wondered (with a lurch of his traitorous heart) if it had anything to do with him.

            She came back a moment later with a water for him and a ginger ale for herself, and happily tucked into the little piece of chocolate cake she’d picked up from the dessert end of the food table. “It’s my weakness,” she admitted with a self-indulgent grin. “I’m a whore for chocolate.” And then she realized what she said, and groaned internally. “I mean…uh…well, I mean, ya know…that I like chocolate a lot.” There she was, making a fool of herself again.

            “I knew what you meant,” he assured her, offering her as soft a smile as he could manage. “I prefer toffee, to be honest. But chocolate has its merits.”

            They were practically leaning across the table at each other at this point and Constance was sure she was giving him more than a small eyeful of her cleavage, but didn’t care because his shirt was hanging just low enough on his neck that her suspicions of lumberjack-esque chest hair were confirmed. She set down her fork deliberately and made up her mind to push forward. “C’mon,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him out of his chair. “Now that I know that you’re good at this, I’m not going to let you out of it.”

            People were dancing again, and the song was slow and sultry. This time, she gave him no choice about how close to hold her, tucking herself against his shoulder and letting her head rest there comfortably. He stiffened slightly and turned himself ever so slightly to one side. It was barely a movement at all, and she wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been flush to his side. But she grinned privately at the realization that he was trying to hide a particular _condition_ from her notice. It made her bold enough to nuzzle her nose gently against his neck and she almost congratulated herself when she caught him sucking in a sharp breath.

            She swayed gently in his arms as the song went on, and decided to herself that all of the fuss and preparations Dorian had put her through were entirely worth it. She registered the physical movement before her brain caught up to its implication, and found Blackwall’s arm sliding firmly and fully across her lower back to press her up against him, as close as she could possibly get. She tipped her head back a little to avoid getting a nose full of beard hair when she looked up at him, and found him smiling gently down at her.

            Constance Trevelyan, woman of action, faltered unmistakably when his eyes caught hers, and she lost the perfect opportunity to steal a kiss. The music stopped right as their eyes found each other, and he forced his gaze away in what looked like a nervous effort to escape.

            Maybe she was pushing too hard. She should probably just back off and let him breathe – just stop trying to push herself on him. But for all of the anxious effort to look away, he was still holding her. Still had her flush against him as tightly as he had during the dance. So she forced her mind to quiet, and lifted herself onto her toes to press a light kiss to his cheek.

            He let her go completely and tugged at the collar of his shirt with one finger. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he murmured, eyes cast down at the floor. “I’m not the sort of man you want. Not the sort you deserve.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” she reached for him, but he stepped back a fraction of an inch.

            “I’m an old man – much older than you – and that comes with a history. And, in my case, a history I don’t care to talk about.” He started back for their table. His throat was dry and his head was spinning, and he hoped that water might help both of those things.

            “I don’t care about any age difference,” she was a half step behind him. “And I’ve got a past, too. I don’t care.”

            She stopped right next to him at the table and watched him drain his water glass, stubbornly meeting his eyes when he put it down again. “I’m giving you a chance,” he said, voice deep and much gruffer than usual. “I’m giving you a chance to walk away. I’m not what you want, I promise you that. But I’m not strong enough to walk away from you.” He held her eyes steady. “I’m selfish enough to admit that I want you, but I know enough to tell you to walk away.”

            In one fluid motion, Constance stepped forward, slipped her hand around the back of his neck, and dragged him down into a kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

            The kiss itself was an aggressive move on her part, but she knew better than to push it too far. She wanted to taste him – every bit of him – but she kept herself to relatively chaste presses of lip to lip, experimenting with which pressures elicited the best response, and giving a hint of further intentions by dragging his lower lip just a bit harder when she pulled back.

            His arms were roped around her back and his breathing had gone ragged. When she opened her eyes again she found him staring down at her with pupils so wide that his normal blue were just thin rings. “You’ll regret this, my lady.”

            Constance let one of her hands slide up his chest and land on his shoulder. “I’m willing to risk it.” She was all but purring. “I’m a big girl. And I like taking chances.”

            He almost groaned at that, and dropped his head to brush his lips lightly across hers once more. Then he pressed his forehead to hers and sighed – heavy and a little resigned. He didn’t know what to say. He definitely didn’t want to be here anymore, not with her so close and so seductive. But he couldn’t possibly invite her home with him, either. That was possibly the worst idea in the world. Maker only knew how little restraint he had left. He couldn’t be alone in a small space with her like that. Not now. Maybe not ever.

            So when she leaned into his ear and murmured: “Walk me home?” He nearly jumped out of his skin.

            “I…uh…” his eyes flitted about nervously. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Constance.”

            She just smiled (an effort to hold in the bitter disappointment coursing through her) and added, “You don’t have to come up if you don’t want to. But the company would be appreciated, and I’d like to be able to kiss you properly – without thirty or forty of our coworkers nearby.”

            Properly? Void take him, this woman would be the death of him. He cleared his throat to get his voice back and found the strength to look her in the eyes again. “Well, you’ll freeze if you try walking home in that,” he motioned to her wrap, “and I’ll be damned if I'm going to let that happen.”

            “Such a gentleman,” she teased, forcing herself to take a step backward out of his arms, even though she didn’t want to be anywhere else.  Blackwall started tidying up the table and went to deliver their glasses back to the bar, and their plates back to the table of food; and Constance pulled out her cell phone. As quickly as she could manage, she typed: “Go to Bull’s. If you come home, I’ll murder you.” to Dorian, and threw her phone back into her purse before Blackwall could come back to their table. She was grinning like a maniac, and could feel her heart trying to beat out of her chest. Carefully, slowly, she set her wrap on her shoulders and went to the bar to close her tab.

            She was signing the receipt when she felt the weight of his jacket on her shoulders, and she grinned a little wider.

            “I thought we agreed you needed this,” he reminded her.

            “But it’s so much better when you put it around me.” She had no idea where this insane forwardness was coming from, but he seemed to be enjoying it.

            “Glad you think so,” he smirked a little and flagged the bartender for his tab as well.

            He debated with himself over and over about whether or not to say yes if (when?) she invited him up. It would be kinder to say no, he thought, as he held the bar's door open for her to exit in front of him. But as soon as they were outside she slipped her hand into his and laced their fingers together, and he thought for more than a fleeting moment that he might say yes to _anything_ she asked of him.

            She walked along beside him, and neither of them said anything. They seemed to be okay with long moments of silence and so she went over and over in her head what to say when they got to the front door of her building. Was asking him up too much? Would it push him away? Or did he mean what he said when he’d said that he wanted her? Maker’s breath, she hoped he meant it. She hoped she hadn’t warned Dorian away from their apartment just to sit alone on the couch with a pint of ice cream and a sixth viewing of ‘Love, Actually’. She hoped. She hoped a lot of things.

            He was surprised when she stopped in front of an early 20th century brick walk-up just three blocks away from the bar they’d been at. He’d only half believed her before when she’d said she lived close by.

            It only took her a second or two to slip her keys from her purse, and she palmed them cautiously before chancing to look over at him again. He hadn’t moved away, even though she’d taken her hand out of his. He was right next to her, and trying valiantly not to give away the fact that he was – in fact – quite cold without his jacket.

            _Fuck it_ , Constance thought as loudly as she could, and slid her arms around his waist to support herself when she leaned up to kiss him again.

            This time, his hands found the line of her jaw and his thumbs pressed lightly against her cheeks as he took full charge of the kiss. He tilted his own head just barely to the side in the same movement that tipped hers back, and she gasped ever so slightly when he licked along the seam of her lips. There was absolutely nothing chaste about the way he took advantage of her parted lips, moving in to taste her fully and swallowing the little groan that bubbled up from the back of her throat. He tasted like scotch and their one cigarette, laced with something slightly salty that made her hungry for more.

            In this moment, she was happy to be bowled over by whatever it was that was happening between them. She pulled back for a deep breath of air and clutched tightly to the collar of his shirt. “Come upstairs?” She asked, a little too breathless and a little too hopeful.


	6. Chapter 6

            Constance and Dorian’s apartment was full of an assortment of deeply stained wooden pieces along the walls with a long leather couch flanked by two wing back armchairs all pointed at a large flat-screen TV. The TV looked distinctly out of place amongst all the things that could easily be mistaken for antiques, until you looked past it and saw the pristine stainless steel kitchen through the next doorway. To the right of the kitchen was a small hallway that presumably led to bedrooms and a bath. Constance hung Blackwall’s jacket on the coat rack by the door and left her wrap and purse on the nearest available surface.

            She was trying her best not to look nervous, but she had no idea what to do now. She’d never brought a man home with her before – not once in all her twenty-six years. Anytime she’d had someone here, it had always been after a relationship had been established. This was entirely new territory for her.

            “I’m afraid I don’t have scotch,” she told him, deciding to break the silence by rustling around in their bar. “But I do have bourbon. Or wine, if you prefer.”

            He smiled gently and shook his head. “Just water, if that’s alright. I’d prefer to keep my head clear.”

            “Right. That’s probably a good idea.” She disappeared through the door into the kitchen and came back a minute later with two mismatched coffee mugs of cold water. The one she handed him had a faded Ostwick College logo on it. She pulled two coasters out of nowhere and dropped them on the mahogany chest that served as a coffee table. “Dorian will kill me if he finds water rings,” she said by way of explanation.

            He set down his mug and turned back to her in time to say, “Constance, I—” at the same time she started saying, “Look, Blackwall—”

            They both laughed nervously, both looking to the other to start again. Constance broke the stalemate: “I don’t want to pressure you,” she said finally. “I just…” she groaned at the stupidity of it. “To be honest, I really, _really_ fancy you and…tonight’s been really nice. And I don’t want it to end yet.”

            He had to laugh at that: deep and honest, the kind of laugh that rumbled through him and made her stomach tie up in knots. “Let’s sit, then,” he suggested, taking a step towards the couch.

            Constance almost punched the air in victory. “Go ahead and sit,” she told him. “I need to take off these bloody torture devices.” She perched herself on the arm of the couch and started unbuckling the little booties she’d been wearing all night. He hadn’t noticed the heels before; her feet must be killing her. He watched her drop the shoes on a small mat by the door (next to a pair of tall leather boots and a set of gold coloured flat shoes, no other heels, he noted), and then he motioned for her to come join him.

            She came over to sit next to him, but he shook his head. “Sit over there,” he told her, and face me.” Confused, she sat in the opposite corner of the couch where he was pointing and stretched out to face him. Why didn’t he want her next to him? Wasn’t that counter productive to spending intimate time together?

            On the contrary. Blackwall scooted just a hair’s breadth closer to her and laid both of her feet in his lap, picking on of them up and carefully pressing both of his thumbs into the pad of her foot in alternating motions. “Maker…” she groaned, letting her head fall back onto the arm of the couch. “Have I told you yet tonight how unbelievably perfect you are?”

            He did his best to hide a scowl. She wouldn’t say that if she knew him better. She’d say the exact opposite. But maybe – just for now – it was okay for her to pay him a small compliment or two, even though he didn’t deserve them. “I don’t believe you’ve said anything of the sort, my lady.”

            “Well, you are.” She was smiling unabashedly as he worked the knots and kinks out of her feet. He would never understand why women wore high heels.

            When he was done, she crawled across the couch and leaned into his side, sinking down next to him with a satisfied grin playing on her lips. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

            “My pleasure,” he insisted, lifting his arm so she could cuddle in closer.

            The antique clock on the wall heralded a new hour, and Constance looked up to find it was only 11 o’clock. “I didn’t realize it was so early,” she said absently, before settling her head back on Blackwall’s shoulder.

            “Not so early for an old man like me,” he joked, squeezing her a little tighter.

            “Oh!” She shot up like a bolt. “Maker…I’m so sorry. If you’re tired, I—”

            “Shh,” he shook his head and chuckled. “I was teasing.”

            “Right.” She blushed, and thanked her romantic impulses that she’d left the living room lights low enough to hide her red face. “Of course you were.”

            She was sitting up on her knees next to him, about eye level because of the difference in their heights. She was still in that Void taken red dress that showed just enough to make him ache for more, and he didn’t feel in the least bit guilty reaching for her and tugging her into his lap. If she wanted him here, he would make it worth her while.

            Constance wasted no time in slipping her arms around his neck and using that leverage to lift herself up just as much as pull him down. Their mouths crashed together, battling for control and using every trick at their disposal to drag sounds of approval out of the other person. She practically purred when a low moan escaped him, and she shifted in his lap so that a little less of her weight was pushing down on his leg. But he took that as moving away, and he let her go with a startled jump. “That was too much. Forgive me.”

            “No,” she laughed, twirling a lock of his hair around one of her fingers. “I just didn’t want to crush your leg.” To prove it to him, she nipped playfully at his bottom lip, and smiled when his response was to fully bite her own lip instead. The bite made her curious, and she threaded a few more of her fingers into his hair and gave them a slight tug.

            Another groan. So, he liked it a little rough, did he? She was more than happy to oblige.

            She was in a rather odd position at the moment, half turned on her side with his arms locked around her back for support, and she wiggled free just enough that she didn’t have to stop kissing him in order to shift herself up onto her knees. With her hands on both of his shoulders, she took a proverbial flying leap, and settled one of her knees on either side of his hips, and then started trailing little nips and open mouthed kisses down his neck. She was halfway concerned that she overstepped boundaries again when he stilled beneath her, but he reached for her hips and slid them just a little bit closer so that she was sitting with most of her weight on his knees instead of holding herself in the air.

            At this point, her skin was on fire, her gut had turned to molten lava, and the bit of her neck that was now on the receiving end of absolutely sinful bites and suckles was starting to tingle. So far, her boldness had been rewarded with absolute enthusiasm, but she was still worried about pushing the envelope. She was half a breath away from undoing the top button of his shirt when one of his thumbs swiped the underside of her breast and she gasped at the contact.

            She was fully melting into him now, completely overtaken by impulse. She had the first button of his shirt undone and was sliding her hand down to the second when the chorus of “Freebird” started playing in his pocket.

            Blackwall grunted in apparent annoyance, digging into his pocket for his cell phone even as he was still peppering her lips with kisses. The song got louder as he pulled his phone out into the open and made a sound of complete aggravation when he looked at the caller ID. “It’s my niece,” he said, with a tone in his voice that meant ‘I have to take this’.

            Constance nodded, and he picked up the call with an apologetic look plastered across his face. “Hey Sera,” he said, as calmly as he could. “No…it’s okay. What’s up?” He listened patiently for a few minutes and his face absolutely fell. “Sure, Sera.” He bit his lip. “No, it’s alright. I understand.” He looked up at the ceiling and swallowed thickly. Whatever this phone call was, it was not something he wanted to hear right now. “It’s alright,” he repeated. “Just go to the apartment. Do you still have your key?” He waited for a response. “Yeah, just go to my place. I think there’s cookies in the cupboard.” Another pause. “Uh-huh. Okay. Love you, too.” He hung up and slumped backward into the couch.

            “My niece just got dumped,” he explained, bringing apologetic eyes up to meet Constance’s gaze. “She’s a mess. More of a mess than usual.”

            “You need to go home,” Constance guessed.

            “I’m so sorry,” he drew her back into his arms and placed a light kiss over her pulse. “I can’t leave her alone when she’s like this. She’ll either end up arrested or passed out drunk, and neither is a good option.”

            Slowly, hesitantly, Constance stepped backward out of his lap and onto her feet in front of the couch. “It’s okay,” she shook her head in defeat. “Family comes first.”

            When Blackwall stood up, he caught her with both hands as well as lips and inched the hand that had ended up on her neck up so his fingers threaded through her hair, returning the light pull she’d dealt him earlier, smirking against her lips when a small groan escaped her. “I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t have to,” he promised.

            “It’s okay,” she repeated, trying to hide the waiver in her voice. She stepped back from him slightly so he could inch by her towards the door, and stayed firmly where she was while he put on his jacket. If she moved, she’d drag him back onto the couch and never let him go.

            “I truly am sorry,” he padded back over to her and kissed her as softly and gently as he possibly could. “I’ll make it up to you.”

            Once he was gone, Constance changed into a pair of yoga pants and an oversize t-shirt, retrieved the ice cream from her freezer, and turned on ‘Love, Actually’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what happened. This was only supposed to be like 4 chapters max. I can't get over these two.


	7. Chapter 7

            There were still three more work days before Skyhold Corps let its employees take two days off for the holiday. Constance had spent the entirety of Sunday in her pajamas watching sappy chick flicks, and eating the entire stack of pumpkin chocolate chip pancakes that Dorian made her for brunch when he and Bull came back to the apartment, as well as the entirety of the leftover macaroni and cheese that was left in their fridge when she went looking for dinner. Dorian tried to grill her for details, but she’d put him off each time, insisting that it didn’t matter and she just needed to get over it. She was worse than gloomy, glued to the couch and trying not to pout.

            On Monday, she came into work to find a small vase of red tea roses on her desk, with a note poking out from between two buds, addressed only to ‘C’.

 

**C— I feel like an ass about Saturday. If you’ve got it in you to forgive me, meet me at the Herald’s Rest at 8 tonight. —B**

 

            If she had it in her? She practically squeaked when she read the note. She read it over and over. It was just two sentences, but they were the two most beautiful sentences she’d heard in days. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and immediately texted Dorian:

 

**[9:10 am] Outfit 911. Date tonight.**

[9:11 am] Blackwall?

**[9:12 am] Meeting him at the Herald’s Rest. No heels this time.**

[9:12 am] We’ll pull out some options when we get home.

 

            The end of the work day couldn’t come fast enough. She watered her flowers and left them proudly displayed on her desk before she left, jetting to the parking garage to get home as quickly as she possibly could. Not that her Mini Cooper was a rocket ship by any means, but it did the trick.

            Somehow, Dorian had beaten her back from the office. When she rounded the corner into her bedroom, Bull was sitting on her wrought iron bed and Dorian was pulling things out of her closet like a madman.

            “Aww, I knew you could do it, kid,” Bull tugged her into his side and rubbed his knuckles affectionately against her scalp.

             “You don’t own enough dresses,” Dorian said, by way of greeting.

            “I prefer pants,” she told him flatly. “They’re more comfortable, easier to move in, and I have a fantastic ass.”

            “Yes, you certainly do,” Bull agreed, giving it a friendly tap.

            Dorian only rolled his eyes. He tossed a sleeveless black silk top and a deep blue cashmere sweater at her and simply said, “Those, and the stretchy black pants. The ones that hug.”

            “I still have hours before I have to be ready,” she told them, carefully folding the blouse and sweater on top of her bureau. “I’m not meeting him until 8.”

            But two and a half hours came and went quickly when Dorian was shoving her in and out of the shower, brushing and blowing out her hair and then pinning it into an elaborate style that he assured her was all the rage in Orlais. Bull, for his part, was demonstrating a surprising amount of good taste in women’s jewelry, sifting through her two jewelry boxes until he came up with a pendant necklace, stud earrings, and slim bracelet that he approved of. In the end, they were practically shoving her out the door so she wouldn’t be late.       

The Herald’s Rest didn’t have any real parking to speak of, so Constance squeezed her Mini Cooper in between two unnecessarily large SUVs and tugged her leather jacket around her to guard herself from the wind as she walked back up the block towards the restaurant.

            The heavy door creaked open and she was greeted by a gust of warm air and an overly cheerful hostess with a nametag marked “Maryden”, who asked her, ever so politely, if she wanted a table for one. “I’m meeting someone,” she told the woman, trying not to sound defensive.

            “Ah,” she smiled with a hint of mischievousness. “Blue eyes, fantastic beard?”

            Constance laughed, actually belly laughed and nodded her head. “Yeah. That’s him.”

            “This way,” she waved Constance along behind her, and left her in the secluded corner where she’d seated Blackwall.

            He stood when he saw her coming, and she was glad to see that he hadn’t gone overboard in trying to dress up. He was in trousers and a charcoal gray Henley shirt, with a black motorcycle jacket slung over the back of his chair. He immediately reached out to slide her bomber jacket off her shoulders and smiled warmly when she turned back around.

            “You look gorgeous,” he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and then moved around her to put her coat on her chair and pull the chair out enough for her to sit down.

            She shouldn’t have been surprised by the gallantry – she really shouldn’t have – but it still elicited the first blush of the night. Once she settled into her seat, she finally noticed that a Manhattan has been patiently awaiting her.

            “That sure I would show?” She teased, sliding one finger along the condensation on the bottom of the glass.

            “No,” he admitted. “Just hopeful.”

            The Rest was a relatively laid back place for a date, and she was grateful for his casual tastes. Dorian would have insisted that they go someplace swanky in order to impress him, but Blackwall didn’t strike her as a man who was impressed by over the top decorations or tiny portions of post-modern fusion cuisine. No, he was a guy with a leather jacket and a “Freebird” ringtone, and she preferred it that way.

            Halfway through their appetizer, she practically had him snorting over the story of a prank she’d pulled in college. By the time their meals arrived, he was running a few fingers over the top of her hand on the table and telling her about a concert he’d gone to a year ago. During dessert, she was absolutely sure that she was halfway in love with the man sitting across from her.

            As he walked her to her car, he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her in close. “We don’t have to go any further than this, you know,” he wasn’t quite looking at her when he said it. “I wanted to apologize for having to run out on you and I think I’ve done that. We can just end it here if that’s what you want.”

            She stopped in front of her car and turned to look up at him (from this angle, it was easily apparent how much shorter she was than him). “Is that what you want?”

            The knot in his gut tightened, and guilt poured through him like venom. He should say yes. He should save her the trouble. She would only get hurt if she stayed with him, and he knew it. It was kinder to end it here and hurt her just a little than to let it go and break her heart completely somewhere down the line. But he couldn't do it. “No,” he sighed in resignation. “No, it’s not.” Maker take him, he _wanted_ her, and it was selfish, but he was going to hang on just a little bit longer.

            “Good,” she smiled, lifting herself onto her toes to slot her lips against his. “Because it’s not what I want, either.”

            He certainly hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to kiss her, but reality was far better than memory in this case. He put his hands on either side of her waist and drew her away ever so slightly. “If we’re going to do this,” he said, voice significantly lower than usual. “I want to do this properly.”

            “Properly?” She tilted her head a little.

            “Let me…” Maker’s balls, he sounded like an old man saying it out loud. “Let me court you. We don’t need to skip right to the steamy bits. There’s plenty before that that’s just as good.”

            She giggled a little at the very idea of it. “But I like the steamy bits,” she insisted, nibbling slightly on his bottom lip.

            “So do I,” he assured her, pulling her down by her waist once more. “But I’d feel more comfortable if we did it this way. If it’s not too much to ask.”

            “I don’t think I’ve ever actually been courted before,” she admitted. It was a relatively archaic term. She’d dated and she’d had relationships, but it was always fast paced and pretty hot and heavy. She shrugged a little and slid her arms around his sides under his jacket until they met in the middle of his back and he was flat against her. “I guess I could give it a shot, if it’s what you want.”


	8. Chapter 8

            The next morning, she arrived at work to find a small box of chocolates on her desk with a tag signed “B”, and she didn’t bother to hide her grin. She slipped the box into her overlarge purse, but not soon enough to keep the woman at the desk next to her from seeing.

            “Secret admirer?” Cassandra asked.

            Constance shrugged. “Something like that.”

            “Or maybe not so secret?” Cassandra leaned across her desk and smirked. “You were getting a little… _cozy_ …with a certain recruiter at the Christmas party.”

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Constance said, much too quickly.

            Her coworker practically cackled. “You must have had a very nice night if he’s already leaving presents on your desk every day.”

            Constance was started to think that her body was making fun of her with how easily she was blushing lately. She could feel the tips of her ears burning red. “It’s nothing,” she insisted.

            “It hardly looks like nothing.” Cassandra was the kind of woman who was confident in her work and assertive in her everyday life, but could easily be caught at lunchtime with her nose stuffed in a romance novel. When she dug for dirt, she was merciless. “You might as well tell me,” she said with a shrug. “The rumours have already begun.”

            “Maker’s breath…” Constance groaned and dropped her head into her hands. Of _course_ there was already gossip. “What are people saying?”

            “Well,” Cassandra grinned. “You were…” she giggled, “quite enthusiastic, by the bar…and then you left together, so Varric is convinced that…you know…” she covered half her face with one hand: “Josie in HR is practically beside herself with jealousy.”

            That pulled an involuntarily smirk of pride from Constance. But she offered a shrug and simply admitted: “He just walked me home.” There was no reason to add that he’d felt her up on her couch. People didn’t need to know that.

             “Oh?” Cassandra’s eyebrows raised involuntarily. “He’s sending you presents after only walking you home?” Her lips pressed into a thin, but genuine, smile. “You must teach me your tricks someday.”

            “I don’t have any tricks, Cass,” she turned back to her computer, letting her eyes linger on the vase of flowers perched next to it. “He’s just very sweet.”

            A few hours later, well out of earshot of Constance’s desk in the Product Development department, Varric pulled up a chair to Blackwall’s desk and perched himself just inside the recruiter’s line of vision.

            “Can I help you?” He finally asked, after getting a little sick of Varric smirking at him.

            “A little birdie said you took a certain Miss Trevelyan home from the party the other night.” Varric kept on smirking.

            “I don’t see how her – or my – business is any cause for chatter.” Blackwall kept his eyes trained on his laptop, nudging his reading glasses up a little further on his nose. He hated the glasses (they just made him look older), but he couldn’t deny needing them now.

            “You’re not denying it,” Varric observed.

            “I’m not feeding the rumor mill,” Blackwall told him, flatly.

            Varric crossed his arms on the corner of the desk and leaned forward. “If you don’t give me something, I’m just going to have to make it up.”

            Blackwall sighed heavily, looking up to meet the smaller man’s eyes. “Say a word against her and you’ll wish you’d never opened your mouth.”

             “So there _is_ something going on.” Varric sat up and rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Come on. Something. Anything.”

            Another deep sigh had Blackwall shaking his head in his hands. “One thing, and then will you leave me alone.”

            “Cross my heart,” Varric promised, marking an ‘x’ over his chest.

            “She’s a very good dancer,” was all he said. And then laughed to himself when Varric grumbled and walked away in defeat.

            It bothered him more than he’d like to admit that their coworkers were sticking their noses in their business, but he hadn’t really done anything to dissuade them. Leaving things on her desk was bound to attract attention almost immediately, but he loved imagining her face when she found them in the morning. He knew from the late night on the phone that she had trouble sleeping, and needed more than her fair share of coffee in the morning to get going. A small part of him hoped that his modest gifts made the mornings a little easier for her.

            Around lunchtime, his phone dinged quietly from the pocket of his jacket.

[12:24 pm] First flowers and now chocolates? I think I like this courting thing.

**[12:25 pm] I’m glad you like them.**

[12:25 pm] People are talking ya know.

**[12:26 pm] Does that bother you?**

[12:28 pm] Not at all. I just wanted to make sure you knew. Everybody thinks we’ve already slept together, I guess.

**[12:30 pm] I should probably stop that one. They shouldn’t be talking about you like that.**

[12:30 pm] They’re talking about you, too.

**[12:32 pm] Gossip aside, can I see you tonight?**

[12:35 pm] Of course. What did you have in mind?

**[12:40 pm] I’ll pick you up at 6:30. Dress up.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen...we have reached psuedo-smut.

            When he buzzed her apartment at 6:29 that night, she threw her bomber jacket over the short-sleeved blue dress she had picked out and grabbed her purse off the counter, shouting, “Bye!” behind her as he trotted down the stairs. He was right outside the door, leaning casually against a sleek, black 1970 Chevelle in the same trousers and jacket that he’d worn to the Christmas party, but this time his shirt was the colour of parchment and he was actually wearing a tie.

            Constance didn’t lose a beat, slipping her arms around his neck and stealing an indulgent kiss. She laughed a little when her dark red lipstick came off on his lips, and offered him the handkerchief from her purse to clean himself up. He wiped his lips quickly – looking a little sheepish – and opened the passenger door for her.

            Once they were on the road, she sank back into the leather seats of the Chevelle and sighed happily. They sat in comfortable silence and listened to the classic rock radio station that he always had on. She never once asked where they were going – enjoying the intended surprise too much to ruin it.

            It was about fifteen minutes later that Blackwall pulled the car into the parking lot of the small university-run theater in the center of the city.

            “You’re taking me to a play?” She asked, incredulous.

            “I’m far more cultured than most people give me credit for,” he smiled cheekily and slid out of the car, making it to her side just in time to open it before she reached for the handle. “Don’t even try to open any doors tonight,” he scolded playfully. He reached down to offer her help getting out, and she didn’t bother hiding her smile. If this was courting, she was perfectly happy to be on the receiving end.

            She happily took his arm once her door was closed, but was immediately confused when he started walking down the sidewalk away from the theater. She opened her mouth to ask where they were going, but almost immediately found herself being steered to the front door of a café advertising “drinking chocolate” and “freshly baked tarts”. She broke out into another grin and squeezed his arm tightly. “You’re perfect.” She murmured happily. “Completely perfect.”

            They sat in the shop – her with a mug of decadently indulgent drinking chocolate and him with a demitasse cup of espresso that looked comically small in his large hands – and idly chatted about nothing in particular. They were comfortable enough with each other to just fill the air with nothingness, and found they had enough different interests to keep each other engaged in talking about various experiences or hobbies.

            When they went back over to the theater, Blackwall checked their coats and she found out just how much he’d spent on their tickets when the usher brought them all the way up the front row. When they took their seats and he settled his arm around her shoulders, she smirked up at him and laughed lightly. “You’re spoiling me,” she accused.

            “You deserve to be spoiled, my lady.”

            “I would _love_ to know your rationale behind that,” she teased. “I am entirely normal, except, apparently, to you.”

            Blackwall only smiled, dropped a light kiss on the top of her head and turned his attention to the stage as the lights went down.

            The theater’s website had advertised “A brilliant re-telling of a classic tale!” under the scripted logo that read “Not Your Grandma’s Shakespeare”. The show was an update of ‘A Midsummer Night’ Dream’, complete with post apocalyptic costuming and too-dense stage fog.

            By intermission, Constance and Blackwall were completely unsure what they were even watching. She glanced over at him after a few minutes and saw the mutual confusion on his face. “So…” she started, but didn’t know how to finish.

            He laughed, shrugging his shoulders. “Want to get out of here?”

            “Maker, yes,” she laughed, glad she didn’t say it herself.

            They ducked out of the theater and he collected their coats from the check window. They were back out and in the car in no time, heading down the main road to no place in particular. “Anywhere you’d like to go?” He asked.

            “There’s a park across from my building,” she said, after a thoughtful pause. “Right on the water.”

            He had a fleeting instinct as to where she was going with this, but did as she asked. He pulled into the small parking lot sandwiched between the park itself and the walkway by the water.

            “Get out,” she told him, reaching for her door handle. She stopped when he looked at her pointedly, and waited patiently for him to open her door. As soon as she did, she hopped over to the front of the car and slid ass first onto the hood. “The cheesiest thing I could think of,” she told him with a grin. “Star gazing.”

            He shook his head, letting loose a genuine belly laugh. “Get down from there,” he told her, going around to unlock the car’s trunk. “If you’re going to lay on it, at least wait for me to get you a blanket.” He produced a fleece blanket from the trunk and spread it out over the hood of the car, holding out a hand to help her hop back up. Lying on a metal sheet wasn’t going to be kind to his back, but he’d risk the aches to make her happy.

            “So, I’m actually not that well versed in constellations,” she confessed once he was lying next to her. “But I figure it’s kind of like connect the dots.” A surprised breath caught in her throat when his fingers roped through hers, but she just pointed up with her free hand and kept going like she hadn’t been thrown completely off kilter by the gesture.

            “Like there,” she traced a set of stars with her finger. “That absolutely looks like a car. I know there are no sanctioned car constellations, but it still looks like one.” She shifted her eyes over a few feet in the sky. "And that one's definitely a cat."

 _Maker_ , this woman took his breath away. Equal measures playful and sensual – a bewildering mix of shy and bold. His entire idea for the night ruined by ill-thought out actors, and she swooped in and rescued the entire evening with less than a second thought. _He_ was supposed to be courting _her_ , not the other way around; but every second he spent with her, he felt himself sink deeper and deeper into an absolutely fathomless love for her. He was the very definition of helpless – he’d do anything for her, and here she was just playing in the December chill, hoping to make him laugh.

            Propriety be damned, he rolled over and braced his weight on his elbow, crushing her under the weight of an almost-too-enthusiastic kiss. Surprised but entirely pleased, Constance snaked the arm closest to him around his waist and pulled him closer. They let identical groans, and Blackwall had to brace himself on his other arm so he wouldn’t smother her with his full weight. He reluctantly left her lips to trail hot, open mouthed kisses down her jaw and neckline, nudging the collar of her jacket aside to swipe his tongue over her pulse, pulling a small moan out of the back of her throat.

            He stayed there, lips pulling tightly at her skin and teeth nipping just hard enough to make her shiver, until he was satisfied that she would have to wear a scarf to work tomorrow. It was sinful, the impulse he had to claim her – the desire to mark her as his own – but he was past trying to deny himself the pleasure.

            She bowled him over with one hand pressed firmly to his hip, and she slipped her knee in between both of his legs for leverage. “I don’t think this fits the traditional definition of courting,” she murmured, taking his earlobe between her teeth and relishing the groan it ripped out of him.

            “I thought you said you’d never be courted,” he growled, reaching for her waist. Now on his back, he had a much better range of motion and his mind had stopped lodging protests about why exactly this was a bad idea.

            The only thing he had to truly concentrate on was not bucking against her knee when it nudged slightly closer to the bulge in his pants. It had been too long – far too long – since he’d even kissed a woman, and she was on top of him, exploring his mouth with her sweet tongue and raking one hand down his chest while her core hovered just above his thigh.

            Constance was quickly being reduced to a panting, moaning mess. She was absolutely sure that he had lipstick on his collar and all down his neck and she couldn’t give less of a damn. He was attacking her mouth like he wanted to lick the taste right out of her. His hands were clutching her sides for dear life, and inching higher. The first bold swipe of his thumb across her breast found her nipple immediately and she gasped against his mouth, sinking down closer to him for body heat and to encourage him to keep exploring.

            A second pass across the fabric separating their skin had him pulling away slightly and looking up at her with amused confusion. “Nipple piercing,” she told him with a shrug, and then she leaned down to capture his mouth again.

_This woman was going to kill him._

            Her dress wasn’t cut low enough to allow him to slip his hand inside, so he went on kneading one breast in his hand while she licked and nipped her way up and down both sides of his neck. Completely carried away by the heat of the moment, she reached down and slipped the tips of his fingers under her skirt.

            He stilled completely, eyes popping open wide in shock.

            “Unless you don’t want to?” She raised her head to look back at him.

            “That’s not too fast?” He asked, his voice tight with concern.

            But she only laughed. “I’m the one who put your hand there,” she reminded him. “But if that’s too fast for you, don’t worry about it.”

            It only took a moment to decide. He licked his way across her lips until she sighed open for him, and let his hand rest against the side of her thigh where her leg was pressed between his legs. By now his hard on felt like steel, but he ignored it in favour of running his hand over soft flesh.

            Feeling particularly daring as his fingers danced across her hip, Constance reached up with the hand that wasn’t supporting her weight and started to tug open the knot of his tie. He stopped her in her tracks, shivering when his fingers found the line of her panties and followed it around to the trim patch of curls above her sex. Her hips ground down onto his fingers and she absolutely failed at holding back a loud moan that started as his name before dissolving into incoherent sounds. Her hips were moving of their own accord, trying desperately to move his fingers down just an inch further.

            It wasn’t until his fingers slipped across the soaked crotch of her panties that he dropped his head back against the hood of his car and drowned out her incoherent pleading with his own thoughts.

            This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. The first time they indulged themselves shouldn’t be on top of his car in the middle of park. The first time he pleasured her shouldn’t be with her perfect ass up in the cold December air for all to see. She deserved better than an animal reaction – was worth more than a brusque roll in the proverbial hay.

            “Blackwall?” One of her hands was tangled in his undone tie and the other was pressed against his side. “What’s wrong?” She could barely catch her breath, panting heavily and flushed red.

            “Not like this,” he murmured, leaning up to kiss her as gently as he could. “You deserve better than this.”

            Constance sat back on her haunches, absolutely bewildered. Every other man she’d ever been with would have been inside her by now. Every other man she’d ever known would have taken the invitation and had her right there in the open park.

            Blackwall, she was finding, was not every other man.

            “If you’re sure,” she acquiesced, trying her best to hide the disappointment that laced through her voice.

            “Don’t think it’s because I don’t want you,” he leaned up on his elbows and mentally memorized the way the moon was haloing her black hair. “Maker, believe me, I want you more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. But you deserve better than this.” He chanced to lie each of his hands on her legs just above her knees, and ran the pads of his thumbs across her skin reassuringly. “I promise you, I’ll find a way to make this worthy of you next time.”

            “Next time?” She raised one eyebrow at him and then lost all concept of seriousness, letting loose a torrent of giggles. “Come on then,” she scooted backward off the car and found her footing on the ground. “Walk me home.”

            He kissed her goodnight at the front door of her building, and quietly mentioned that she might want to wash the smudged lipstick off of her face before Dorian saw her. She giggled again, pressing one last kiss to his lips and told him, “You too. You look a mess.”


	10. Chapter 10

            Once she was home from work the next day, Constance dropped down on the living room couch and kicked her feet up over the arm to lie back and stare at the ceiling. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this good. It was possible she’d _never_ felt this good. She unbuttoned the high collared shirt she’d worn to work (in an attempt to hide the trio of bruises he’d left along her neck) and tugged it off until she was just in a tank top and trousers. The only thing stopped her from taking a satisfying nap full of delicious dreams of roving hands and lingering kisses, were the butterflies churning in the pit of her stomach.

            Maker’s breath, she was all but shaking with nerves. There was no reason for her to be anxious – not really. They’d become more than comfortable with each other in just a few short days, and had wasted no time learning the particulars of each other’s sighs and small moans. She could hear him in her ears if she just closed her eyes, could remember the bulk of him beneath her and the calluses on his hands as they slid up her legs. Forgoing leggings under her dress last night had _definitely_ been worth it.

            This morning’s desk gift now lay on the coffee table next to her, balanced against her little vase of flowers and the gold-wrapped box of chocolates that she still hadn’t opened. Today it was a note – written in handwriting that was clearly his but looked like he was forcing himself to be extra neat – on stationary that she was almost certain was newly bought, since it had drawings of her favourite flowers splashed across the front of the card.

           

**C— I lost innumerable hours of sleep thinking of you last night. I don’t believe I’ve ever enjoyed star gazing that much. Drinks tonight? I’ll pick you up at 9. Casual this time, and I promise there won’t be any post modern plays. —B**

 

            This man was going to be the death of her. She’d had her share of relationships. She’d had her share of sex and intimacy. But the way her heart was threatening to burst right out of her chest at the very thought of him was entirely new. She was sighing like a schoolgirl, and it would have been truly disconcerting if she weren’t so bloody _happy_. She was all but giggling to herself on the couch when the front door opened and slammed violently, heralding Dorian’s return home.

            “Thank the sodding Maker we have a few days off,” he griped, hanging his pristine winter coat on the rack by the door.

            “Bad day?” She asked without looking up.

            “I spent the entire day trying not to slap Mrs. Giselle while we wrapped up the reports on the Redcliffe project.”

            “Sounds like fun.” Constance raised herself up on her elbows and quirked her head slightly to look her cousin in the eye. “Bull coming over tonight?”

            “For dinner,” Dorian nodded and set his briefcase down next to the couch and slumped down in his arm chair. “You have plans tonight, I assume?”

            “Drinks,” she couldn’t help grinning. She probably hadn’t stopped grinning in days.

            With a scathing reply right on the tip of his tongue, Dorian finally laid eyes on her neck. “Holy Maker…” he breathed, and then burst out laughing. “You look like a sixteen-year-old who’s been spending too much time under the bleachers!”

            “Don’t care,” she announced, laughing along with him.

            “Andraste’s sweet behind, look at you,” Dorian slid out of the chair and knelt next to her to have a good look. “He went to _town_ on you.”

            Constance shrugged. “He’s pretty marked up, too.”

            That had him laughing even harder, but with a soft smiling playing under his ridiculously carefully groomed mustache. “You look happy, Con.”

            She leaned forward and smacked a kiss onto the middle of his forehead with a giggle. “I am, Dorian. I am.”

            When Blackwall came to pick her up that night she was blissfully comfortable in a pair of jeans and a flowing purple blouse, with a scarf wrapped carefully around her neck for good measure. To her enormous relief, they ended up at a downtown bar that so neatly fit into the “dive bar” category that he was greeted by name when he came in, and two of the other men nearby asked if he was playing pool that night. It wasn’t until everyone noticed his hand firmly tangled in hers that the knowing eyebrow raises started.

            He drew her up onto a stool at the end of the bar and she tucked her hand into his elbow. “So, I take it you’re a regular here?”

            Blackwall laughed at that, as the bartender brought him a beer without being asked. “Yeah, you could say that,” he nodded.

            “For you, honey?” The enormously large (but cheerfully friendly) bartender asked.

            Constance replied with a cheery, “Dealer’s choice,” and watching the barman walk away with an amused shake of his head.

            They sat for a moment, her head resting on his arm, and said nothing. When she finally felt his fingers running through her hair, she all but purred and felt her mind go delightfully blank. “What are you doing for Christmas?” She finally asked when her brain started working again.

            “My niece is coming over for dinner tomorrow. She likes Christmas Eve better than Christmas. Other than that, I’ll be in my boxers, beer in hand, watching ‘A Christmas Story’ on repeat.”

            She laughed and raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that supposed to deter me from coming over?” She asked cheekily.

            That raised a blush from him. “I thought you’d be busy. Family and all.”

            Constance shrugged, and thanked the bartender when he brought her a drink so overfull that he left the shaker’s tumbler behind with more. She sipped for a moment, (“Sidecar,” she announced. “Perfect.”) before twisting her mouth into a little grimace. “My family isn’t exactly supportive. Dorian and I both have a hard time with them.”

            He smiled softly, letting his free hand rub circles on her back. “What could they possibly find to disapprove of with you?”

            She had to laugh at that – a laugh that was almost a snort. “I’m not married. And therefore can’t be a respectable housewife. The fact that I work in an office is unbelievable to them.”

            “They actually disapprove of you being unmarried?” He looked incredulous. “You’re so _young_.”

            “I’m 26, but my older sister was already married at 23. She’s already got three kids, and runs maids all around her unnecessarily large house while my brother-in-law travels all over the world yelling at people and probably having innumerable affairs.” Constance sipped her drink and tapped her fingers mindlessly on the bar. “My brother died when we were kids. So it’s just Grace and me, and as far as they’re concerned, she’d perfect.”

            Blackwall squeezed his arm around her waist and planted a kiss on her hair. “I’m sorry about your brother,” he murmured, “but I have a suspicion that your sister probably isn’t as perfect as your parents seem to believe.”

            “You’re sweet,” he reminded him, and pecked a kiss on the tip of his nose. “It’ll be fine. I’ll get berated for still being single and told that I’m going to die an old maid. Dorian’s father will give his yearly lecture on how ‘just finding the right girl will fix everything’, and then we’ll come home and drink ourselves into a Christmas stupor. Just like we do every year.” She shrugged again, her usual gesture of defeat. “It’s why Bull never comes to Christmas dinner with us. Dorian’s father doesn’t understand. And he doesn’t want t.”

            His eyes were darting up and down her face, tracing the shell of her ear and reminding himself of the curve of her lips and the line of her jaw. His mind was almost catching up with his mouth, but his mouth won the race: “But…you’re not really single anymore…I hope.” He coughed nervously as soon as he’d said it. It was presumptuous at best, and relentlessly rude at worst.

            But she only leaned forward, slotting her lips against his ever so lightly. “No. I suppose I’m not.” If her heart had been threatening to leave her chest just _thinking_ about him earlier, it was actually now attempting to exit her body via her throat now. It had been less than a week. Barely five days. In five days they’d spent four nights together – not actually spending the _night_ together, but being alone together. This was only their third proper date. Constance was about thirty seconds away from hyperventilating, if she was going to be completely honest with herself. So she did what she always did when she got mind-numbingly nervous. She talked too much.

            “I don’t know what good it’ll do me, though. They won’t believe you exist, no matter how much Dorian and I have to say about you. Even if they saw a text, they’d say it was one of my friends pretending. Trevelyans are notoriously stubborn. The only way they’d believe me is if you came with me, which I would never, _never_ —”

            “I’d be happy to come with you, if that’s what you want.”

            He looked so completely; impossibly sincere that she actually felt a few tears form. Five days, she reminded herself. It took only five days for her to fall completely in love with him. And he was willing to brave her family at Christmas just to make her happy. Maker’s breath, he had no idea what he was suggesting. No idea at all.

            “I couldn’t do that to you,” she shook her head. “It might make my life easier, but yours would become a living hell.”

            “I’ve had my fair share of tense Christmases,” he promised, with another squeeze of her side. “What would it be? Questions about my career and income, my intentions…how quickly we intend to have children?” He forced a laugh. “Families are all the same, no matter how hard they try to be different.”

            “Five days.” This time she said it out loud. “We’ve been at this just five days. I can’t ask you to play at commitment after just a few days.”

            Something about his face softened. His hand loosened on her side and his eyes dropped down to the rim of his beer bottle. Even his breath seemed to catch. “Constance…” he swallowed thickly. “I…I’m not playing at anything.”

            Every single ounce of tension Constance had been holding melted away in less than a split second. “You’re not?”

            “No,” he smiled, and it lit up his entire face. “I’m not.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sera returns! With Widdle, of course.

            The knock on the door came about 25 minutes later, but Blackwall had expected that. It slammed open without preamble, and two shouting women, no more than 21 or 22, came barreling through.

            “Uncle B!” Sera ran into the kitchen and all but tackled the man in the kitchen, dropping a large platter of cookies onto the counter with a clatter. “Merry Christmas, Beardy.”

            “Merry Christmas,” he agreed, wrapping one arm around her neck and tugging playfully until she was laughing and smacking at his side.

            “Geroff!” She grumbled, taking a cookie off of the platter she’d brought. “Widdle made some kind of fancy boozy thing with liquid nitrogen. She’s pouring it,” Sera motioned vaguely toward the big, square table that had been set up in the middle of the living room.

            “What concoction have you got out there?” Blackwall stuck his head into the living room just in time to have a cup of something freezing cold thrust into his hands and have two short arms wrap around his torso.

            “It’s mulled apple cider, cooled, and then frozen with a nitrogen bath.” Dagna gave his sides a squeeze. “I’ve been trying stuff out. So far this is the best.”

            He hugged his niece’s girlfriend, glad to see that a few days’ time was enough to heal whatever wound had opened earlier in the week. The drink was accepted warily, though it proved to be a relatively successful experiment. Dagna was taking out her frustration through experimental cooking, and some results were considerably less successful than others.

            Dinner was being set on the table when Blackwall’s phone buzzed:

 

[6:42 pm] Merry Christmas Eve! I hope you’re having fun with your niece. I’m watching Dorian and Bull cuddle and missing you.

 

To his dismay, Sera beat him to the phone:

 

**[6:43 pm] Oy! Sera here. You’re missin Beardy kisses, eh? Too much hair. Bet it scratches something awful.**

[6:45 pm] Actually, Sera? It’s softer than you think. Tickles a little, but that’s all.

 **[6:45 pm]** **Gross, though, innit? Too much hair in general. Too much…stuff.**

[6:48 pm] Well, more for me, then, I guess. Cut your uncle a little slack, he’s a sweet guy.

**[6:49 pm] Can’t though. He’s been mad about you for ages, cross my heart. If I can’t make fun of him now, what fun is it?**

 

Blackwall snatched back his phone as soon as he was out of danger from burning himself on something and immediately groaned at Sera’s messages.

 

**[6:50 pm] Sorry, she got to my phone before me. I miss you, too.**

[6:51 pm] Mad about me for ages, huh?

**[6:53 pm] I’m going to kill her for that one.**

[6:54 pm] Go have dinner. I just wanted to say hi.

**[6:56 pm] I’ll pick you up in the morning. Dorian, too. No sense in him driving separately.**

He wanted to say he loved her. Maker’s balls, he was _dying_ to say it. It almost escaped him every time they talked. It was just a breath away. But there was so much she didn’t know about him, still. And so much she could never know. And as much as he was enjoying this – fling – he couldn’t hold her to it. After the holidays were over the shine would rub off of it and she would be free to just passing him politely in the office. Not matter how badly it hurt him, she would be better off.

            “You and her?” Sera raised an eyebrow at him when they sat down at the table. “Sound good. She’s nice. Not scared of a couple of jokes.”

            Blackwall just smiled and shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about her now – not when he was voluntarily going to face her family tomorrow and still sinking in the reality of the fact that he would have to end this sooner or later. _Just make her life a little easier tomorrow_ , he reminded himself. _Tomorrow is about helping her, not seducing her._

            They ate in silence for a few minutes before Dagna piped up: “You still haven’t told us anything about her, you know.”

            Blackwall huffed a breath out through his nose and shook his head. “You two aren’t going to drop this, are you?”

            “Nope,” Sera told him cheerily.

            With an intentionally loud grumble, he waved his hand in defeat. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

            “None of the panting, sexy bits,” Sera wrinkled her nose. “Gross.”

            “You’ve been out every night with her,” Dagna tried to veer the subject in another direction. “What do you do?

            Blackwall’s mind provided helpful flashbacks to hips in his hands and lips on his neck, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, hoping to banish them. “Had dinner, went to see a play, went for drinks,” he had no intention of going overboard with details. If he did, he was likely to give away his feelings, and he did not need these two girls to be privy to his feelings.

            “Not helpful,” Dagna argued.

            Without realizing she’d snatched it off the table, Sera was holding up his phone and flipping through his most recent pictures. “This her?” She asked, sliding to a photo they’d taken before the play the other night. Sera flipped a few more times and found a photo he’d forgotten to delete (had he _really_ forgotten?) of her looking over her shoulder at him in the bar. “Good ass,” Sera announced.

            “Okay.” Blackwall dove for his phone but she was too quick for him.

            “Didn’t know you had it in ya, ya great old perv.” She teased.

            “Stop it,” he growled, taking back the phone.

            “What’d you get her for Christmas?” Dagna, always helpful, tried pulling the conversation away again.

            Blackwall huffed, stuffing his phone into his pocket and taking a few more bites of his dinner. “Jewelry,” he said finally.

            “You’re not giving us anything,” Sera stuck her tongue out at him and went on eating. “You gonna sit around tomorrow and brood over missin’ her?”

            “No,” the smile that played on Blackwall’s lips was unmistakable, and not easy to hide. “I’m seeing her tomorrow.”

            Before the night was over, the two girls had pulled out every decent piece of clothing he owned and forced him into a fashion show. Dagna had very, very distinct opinions about what kind of clothes would be best for weather and terrain, and Sera was more concerned that he cover up his over abundance of chest hair.

            They eventually found an Oxford shirt in the back of his closet that he didn’t even know he owned and forced him into a fashion show. These two girls (for he was nearly two decades older than them) were the closest thing to family he’d had in his entire adult life, and he was grateful for them every day. Even when they were sitting on his bed trying to give him dating advice.

            They exchanged presents late in the night and the girls were off by midnight, leaving Blackwall alone in front of his small, sparsely decorated Christmas tree with a few cookies and a glass of milk before he went to bed.


	12. Chapter 12

            It was colder in Christmas day than anyone had expected. Cold enough that Dorian had to take out his pea coat and was now complaining loudly about the inconvenience of having to travel so far just to see family they didn’t want to spend time with.

            “Sit down and shut up,” Constance had told him, just before Blackwall had arrived.

            She buzzed him up because she wasn’t quite ready to go yet, and Dorian happily showed him the way to her room despite her express instructions.

            “Sorry,” she grimaced when she saw him standing in the doorway. “I swear, I’ll just be a minute more.” She was tugging carefully at the collar of her shirt, still careful while the marks on her neck hadn’t entirely faded.

            “Take all the time you need, my lady.” He couldn’t help but smile. Even in an ugly Christmas jumper (which read “Nice” where Dorian’s matching one read “Naughty”) she looked spectacular. He fiddled with the box in his pocket, knowing he should give it to her now, before they were forced into socializing with her family, but he was unseasonably nervous.

            “Here, come on,” she took his hand and pulled him out into the living room, where the fully lit Christmas tree sparkled in the corner. She rummaged around underneath it and pulled out a small box with his name scrawled across the tag. “Merry Christmas.”

            “You didn’t have to,” he protested; hand still in his own pocket.

            She went up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “I wanted to.”

            The box was slightly longer than his hand, but no wider. With a tight smile, he took the thin, square box out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Merry Christmas,” he echoed.

            He opened his gift in silence, but Blackwall let out an amused laugh when he saw the ridiculous black and green tie, covered in a pattern of bright Christmas lights. “Trevelyans may be snobs, but we believe it humiliating Christmas attire,” she told him with a grin. Beside it was a thick metal belt buckle stamped with a detailed image of a griffon with its wings spread.

            “Shall I wear these?” He asked, noting the please look on her face.

            “If you like,” she grinned. “The tie will be dashing, I promise.”

            Not a minute or two later, when he was fully accessorized, Constance consented to open the velvet lined box in her hands. A small gasp escaped her, and her eyes blew wide when she looked up at him. “You didn’t have to do this…” she breathed, looking between him and the box.

            “A small token of my affection,” he insisted. “May I?” She could only nod, so he lifted the necklace off of its resting place and stepped behind her to clasp it around her neck. A small teardrop pearl hung inside a small ring of blue gems, sitting right at the base of her throat.

She carefully switched out her plain gold hoops for the matching blue earrings and held one hand against the pendant at her neck. “They’re gorgeous.” She felt like she could barely breathe. He was impossible. Impossibly sweet, impossibly kind, impossibly romantic and attentive. “I—” Her voice stuck. It was too early to say the things she wanted to say. Far too early. But her cheeks were burning and her eyes were tearing and her head was starting to spin. All she could say was, “Thank you.”

 “Come on, then,” he kissed her forehead sweetly and rubbed one broad hand across the small of her back. “Let’s go, shall we?”

“If you two are done being disgusting,” Dorian added, already bundled up in his coat. “I’d like to get this over with.”

“The sooner we leave, the sooner we can come home,” Constance agreed.

The ride to the Trevelyan estate was mostly consumed with stories of what to expect. Constance’s mother would inevitably have too much wine. Dorian’s father would make a fuss about how dinner was never served on time. Constance’s niece and nephews would wreak havoc in the parlour at least once before the night was over.

It wasn’t until the Chevelle pulled into the enormous driveway of the estate that Blackwall began to truly understand the enormity of the situation. These were people who had more money than they knew what to do with, so they spent it on anything they pleased. Including a mansion with a carefully manicured garden and thousands of Christmas lights in the windows. It suddenly made sense that her apartment was full of near-antiques and that her kitchen was state-of-the-art. She was the black sheep of a wealthy family – with creature comforts and a gravely attitude. She must have been an absolute wild child in college, if the way she was now was a mellowed out version of her old self.

“Home sweet home,” Constance said through clenched teeth.

“Brave faces, everyone,” Dorian strode towards the front door and pushed it open without waiting to see if they were behind him.


	13. Chapter 13

            “Oh my goodness, you didn’t make him up.” Constance’s mother was standing shell-shocked in the front hallway.

            Constance groaned. “No, Mother, I didn’t.” She gave his hand a squeeze and barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “Blackwall, this is my mother, Lilah Trevelyan.”

            Lilah demurred, barely holding out her hand, and was completely shocked when he took it with a slight bow of his head before adding: “I’m very pleased to meet you, ma’am,” and letting it go again.

“Your father’s in the parlour dear, with the children.” She said the last word very pointedly. “Go and say hello.”

            The introductions went on and on, but Blackwall never faltered. Name after name, handshake after handshake. He even knelt down low enough for Constance’s youngest nephew to give his beard a good tug and fielded a few of his questions about being Santa Claus’s apprentice. (“You can’t be Santa,” the little boy explained, as though the adults in the room didn’t quite understand. “It’s not white, yet.”)

            After a while, and a few glasses of wine, Constance’s older sister took over the conversation. “Blackwall can’t be your first name,” she observed, raising an eyebrow. “It’s absurd.”

            “It would be,” he agreed. “But it’s Gordon, I’m afraid.”

            Grace Trevelyan Cathern scoffed. “No wonder she calls you by your surname.”

            Constance was already gritting her teeth and they’d only been in the house for an hour. “Yes,” she growled. “Thank you, Grace. That was helpful.” Grace offered her sister a mocking smile and walked away.

            “It’s alright,” he laughed, snaking his arm around her back to calm her down. “I agree. Gordon is a silly name.”

            She shrugged lamely and let her head rest on his shoulder. “I like it,” she confessed.

            “I’m glad,” he chuckled and left a kiss on the top of her head. “Now, should we get you a drink?”

            “ _Maker_ , yes, please.” She led him across the room to her father’s elaborate bar and poured herself an oversized glass of wine. “For you?” She asked, turning her head up and slightly to the side to be able to see him where he was standing in back of her.

            “Better make it just a small one,” he advised, knowing full well that he was having one drink and one drink only today. He wasn’t mucking up his impression on her family by looking irresponsible.

            “Smart,” she agreed, reaching over to pour him out a short glass of her father’s favourite scotch.

            “Where’s Dorian gotten to?” Blakwall looked around the room and peered into the hallway but found no sight of him.

            Constance, with one finger held aloft in the air, waited patiently for a sound that would lead them to him. In less than a second, she heard silverware thumping angrily onto a wooden table, and she nodded knowingly. “He’s setting the table. Sounds like he’s already said hello to his father.”

            They rounded the corner into the large, wainscoted dining room and found Dorian huffing over the place settings. “Can we leave yet?” He growled, dumping the serving utensils unceremoniously into the center of the table.

            “Not as long as my boyfriend keeps knocking the smug smirks off everybody’s faces,” Constance teased. And then every ounce of blood drained from her face – her eyes opening wide and her jaw starting to waiver. “I didn’t—” she stuttered, adamantly shaking her head at Blackwall. “I mean…my family—and…” she looked like she was about to cry. “Oh Maker…I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to call you that.”

            But he was only laughing (and trying to ignore the exaggerated eye roll that Dorian was giving them both). “I’m flattered you think so well of me,” he told her, wrapping both of his arms around her shoulder and drawing her into a hug.

            “I don’t want to pressure you,” she mumbled, lips and chin and nose pressed against the lapel of his jacket.

            “I know,” he kissed the top of her head and buried his smile in her hair. He didn’t have any right to this part of her. They’d spent a few days together – a few very happy days, granted – but not enough for her to truly know what she was saying. Maker knew he loved her. He’d loved her well before that damned Christmas party. He’d only agreed to today (jumped on the opportunity to spend another day with her) to make her life easier with her family. She didn’t know what she was doing, making this next step forward. She didn’t know enough about him to make that kind of decision.

            But the anxiety on her face was clearly etched into every inch of her skin. “Am I forgiven?” She wanted to know, green eyes muted with fear from their regular vibrancy.

            “Nothing to forgive,” he assured her. She tipped back her head to smile at him (relief washing over her clear as day) and he couldn’t stop himself from kissing her.  

            Christmas dinner lasted an eternity. Constance fielded every imaginable question about how she and Blackwall had met, how they had started dating, how long they intended to be together, and if he wanted children. What she couldn’t answer (mostly the last bit), he stepped into easily. Of course he wanted children – children were a wonderful part of life – but right now his focus was helping his niece through her difficult transition into adulthood.

            Constance’s father treated them to a treatise on the importance of children as the next generation to usher the Free Marches forward. Her mother added that family values were being brushed entirely under the rug with the absence of a new Divine. Dorian’s father thankfully restrained himself from exalting possible Chantry reforms.

            It wasn’t until later on, when Constance and Dorian’s fathers had ushered the other men into a side room to share cigars and more expense liquor, that the full weight of bringing Blackwall to meet her family started to set in.

            Without preamble, Grace threw herself on a nearby couch, balancing a fresh glass of wine. “He’s too old,” she informed her younger sister.

            Constance huffed impatiently. “Why does his age matter?”

            “And you make more money than he does,” her mother added.

            “So?” Constance felt her shoulders tense.

            “He only has a few more good years left,” Grace went on. “Whatever looks you _think_ you see…they’ll be gone within the next five years.”

            “Just because you don’t think he’s handsome, doesn’t mean I can’t, Gracie.”

            Lilah Trevelyan sat herself elegantly on the edge of the couch her eldest daughter was perched on. “You would have to raise children in _Haven_ ,” she shuddered at the thought. “You wouldn’t even be able to send them to proper schools on what little you make.” She grimaced again. “If he even decided to stick around at all.”

            Constance almost growled. “I didn’t bring him here so you could berate him.” She had her hands clenched at her sides. “I thought – incorrectly, it seems – that you might actually be pleased to see that I found someone. It was silly of me, clearly, but I suppose just being happy for your daughter is silly enough on its own.”

            “Dearest, stop being so dramatic,” Lilah Trevelyan waved her hand dismissively.

            “No!” Constance felt shades of petulant teenager rising in her cheeks, but she forgot to care. “You can’t belittle the man I love and expect me to just roll over and take it!”

            All three women sat staring at each other. Grace’s jaw was unhinged, though not quite hanging open. Lilah’s eyes were as wide as they could be – practically overwhelming the rest of her face. Constance’s throat was dry as sandpaper. Had she really just said it? Shouted it at her mother and sister? Maker, but she was acting like an idiot today. Calling him her ‘boyfriend’ earlier and now hollering that she loved him. It was a good damned thing he wasn’t here to hear this. He’d be out the door and down the driveway before she could take a next breath. But, for now, she had to recover in _this_ room with _these_ people.

            She clenched her fists again and forced out an unsteady breath. “You’ll be polite to him. Both of you. For as long as he is in this house.” One more breath, and she was pushing herself to her feet and striding out the door.

            As soon as she was out of sight, she took the stairs two at a time to her old bedroom.


	14. Chapter 14

            She was sitting in a teenager-sized desk chair when there was a soft knock on the door. She didn’t even have enough time to wipe her tears away.

            “Constance?”

            Of course he’d come to look for her.

            “Over here,” she said, turning in the chair to be able to see the doorway. “Sorry. Is everything okay?”

            “I should be asking you that.” He shut the door quietly behind him and went to stand with her, hands unconsciously starting to run along her tense shoulders. “What happened? All I heard was yelling, and then someone on the stairs.”

            “My family happened.” She knew how petulant she sounded, but the warmth of his hands on her was the fastest way to break down her barriers. The proximity of him meant safety – meant she didn’t have to be alone. “They were rude, and I yelled.”

            “I don’t know that I’ve ever heard you yell.”

            “Probably not,” she shook her head. “It takes a lot for me to lose my temper.”

            “Do you mind if I ask what it was that made you so upset?” One of his hands had moved off of her shoulders and was wiping away the tear tracks down her cheeks.

            If she told him, she’d sound like an idiot. He’d be embarrassed – mortified, even – that she’d said something so ridiculous. He’d politely excuse himself from whatever their next plans might be, saying he needed to spend time with Sera. Or that he was overwhelmed at work. Or anything that would be a kind way of avoiding spending time with her.

            And yet?

            And yet, she’d never been anything but honest with him, and they’d gotten this far. He might not love her back (of course he didn’t, that would be absurd) but he might be kind enough to let her down gently. Of course he would be kind enough. He was only ever kind to her.

            “If I tell you, do you promise not to leave this room until you’ve thought about it for more than thirty seconds?” Thirty seconds would be long enough to avoid angry stomping on the stairs, right?

            “Of course,” he laughed lightly, threading his free hand through her hair and used it to turn her head gently to look up at him, and he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “It can’t be that bad, whatever it is.”

            She swallowed thickly, and let her eyes close. She couldn’t let herself look at him, it was too overwhelming. “They were saying some particularly awful things…you know…about us…and I…” Maker take her. “I told them they were wrong,” her throat stuck. “And that I love you.”

            She had expected him to bolt for the door. To run. To get as far away as he could. She didn’t expect him to bring both of his hands to her cheeks and to gift her with the sweetest, kindest, gentlest kiss they’d ever shared. She didn’t expect him to swallow her little gasp and replace it with his own, and she didn’t expect to feel him shake just a little bit when they finally separated to look at each other.

            He had tears in his eyes: happiness lined with a little worry. “I didn’t expect that,” he admitted, after a breathy laugh. The two sides of his mind were at war. One was screaming to tell her he loved her, too. To gather her up and never let her go. To keep her safe, and make sure she always knew how wonderful she was. The other knew she’d never forgive him when she found out who he truly was. How could she, when he couldn’t ever forgive himself?

            Ultimately, though, he was a selfish man.

            “You know I love you, too, right?”

            She almost jumped out of her chair. She was clinging to him, sniffling back tears and choking on sobs that could have been laughs.

            _Elated_ , she thought, burying her fingers in his hair and catching his lips with hers. _This is what elation feels like_.

            Jumping out of her chair pulled her up onto him, which propelled him backward, where his knees caught on the edge of her stuffed animal covered bed, and sent them both falling down onto the bedspread. For the third time in a week, Blackwall found himself beneath her while she peppered his face and neck with kisses, this time punctuated with little murmurs and laughter. For the third time in a week, his hands found her waist and held her close, unwilling or unable to let her get too far away.

            “If you two are quite finished,” drawled a voice in the doorway. “I’d like to get back home and actually enjoy spending time with my _own_ boyfriend.”

            Dorian was smirking, though, and shook his head in bemusement when Constance pulled herself off of Blackwall and tugged her sweater back into place. “Let’s get the hell out of here, then,” she agreed brightly.

            Their goodbyes were short, thank the Maker, and they were pulling out of the Trevelyan estate’s driveway not half an hour later.

            Dorian spent most of the ride home on the phone with Bull, at the end of which he asked if Blackwall would mind dropping him on Charger St instead of taking him home first.

            Everything was going spectacularly until Constance and Blackwall were standing in her living room a few hours later and he said “Good night” after a particularly passionate kiss.

            That was it. A kiss, and good night, and he was gone with a smile.

            And Constance was left wondering what had gone wrong during the ride home to make him want to leave, when he’d only just said he loved her.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry how long this last chapter took to post!  
> My household has been sick since Christmas and everything has taken longer to get everything done. Thanks for hanging in there with me <33333

            Blackwall stared at the ceiling for well over an hour on each of the next two mornings. He was barely sleeping at night – dreams of her interspersed with fits and starts of turning over and the anxiety that made him unable to settle in under his blanket.

            It was out. He couldn’t take it back now. He couldn’t be sure now, after the whirlwind this last week had been, about whether or not he had ever intended to tell her. Maybe he had hoped that she wouldn’t love him in return, and that that might free him of some of the strings that held him to her so inexplicably. Part of him thought she’d be too pragmatic for all of this. That she would see how insane it all was and distance herself from him when he said it.

            When.

            Who was he trying to kid? He’d been dying to say it aloud. Telling her he loved her felt like a door to a whole new everything. He was supposed to be starting his life over, and he desperately wanted her to be a part of it. She felt like coming home again. And he’d barely ever had a home to come back to – so the thought of letting her go was enough to keep him staring at his ceiling with his blanket slung across his waist, arms askew at his sides like he’d barely moved since waking.

            The idea that she loved him back was one he’d never entertained, and the reality of it was hitting him like a freight train. He didn’t deserve so much as a second glance from that woman, and she claimed she loved him. If she knew half of what he really was, she’d take it all back.

            And now it was two days since he’d seen her – not an overly long amount of time in the broad scheme of things, but it felt like he was tearing himself apart. Having her next to him was as natural as breathing; and as necessary as it, too. A short phone call the night before when he’d feigned not feeling well did nothing to soothe his missing her. 

            He’d clean his apartment twice, trying to get her out of his mind. Cooked enough to live off leftovers for a week. He’d done three weeks’ worth of laundry. No amount of tidying or busy work would keep her off his mind.

            He was pouring through yet another recipe from a battered old cookbook when he heard the knock at his door.

            Constance’s hand was raised in the middle of her fourth knock when the door swung open. Whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t to find him with his hair pulled back into a neat bun, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, with an apron tied loosely around a t-shirt that was slightly too tight for his (remarkably fit) frame; the sizeable tattoo above his elbow was now relatively unobstructed: a large chalice speared by a greatsword.

            He was equally surprised, and they stood for a moment just looking at each other. “You don’t look sick,” she observed finally.

            “Come inside.” He stepped aside just enough to let her in before shutting and locking the door behind her. He screwed up his face and pushed out a breath before he turned around. “No, you’re right. I’m not.”

            “You lied to me.” She was standing in the middle of his living room with her arms crossed against her chest – leather jacket, flannel shirt, jeans and sneakers. The most casual he had ever seen her and Maker she was breath-taking. Not even a drop of make up. Just her. Wickedly perfect _her_.

            “Constance—” he started.

            But she held up her hand. “If you want to take it back, just tell me.”

            She had frustration painted across her face. It was the face of a woman who had spent two days combing through details, analyzing them and piecing together a puzzle she hadn’t been able to find a solution to. How could she, when he’d held the final pieces so close to his chest? It was obvious this had been wearing on her, maybe since the moment he’d brought her home two days ago. And it was fault.

            One more thing to regret.

            And all at once, the truth had to be told.

            “No,” he shook his head. “I don’t want to take it back.”

            She held her arms a little tighter around herself. “Then why are you avoiding me?”

            He wanted to reach for her – to hold onto her and cradle her and promise that everything would be right from then on. That he would be the man she thought he was. But he couldn’t promise her anything until she knew him for who he was. And that confession along might cost him everything.

            “I need to tell you something,” he told her, when he found his words. “About me. Something about me.”

            She cocked her head and almost laughed. “You can tell me anything. You know that.” Such faith, even when she was angry with him.

            “You’d better sit,” he motioned at the couch behind him. Without question, she slid out of her jacket and dropped down onto the cushions, watching him expectantly. “You know…” She didn’t know a Void taken thing; he’d made sure of that. He tossed his glasses onto the table next to the sofa and sat down across from her, pinching the bridge of his nose sharply. “You don’t know anything about me. About my past.” It came out more sharply than he meant it too, but it was true nonetheless. “I’ve not told you anything on purpose.”

            “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.” She was so matter of fact about it, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

            “I’ll tell you, if you think you want to hear it.” He sighed again, an involuntary reflex. “But you’ve got to understand, once your hear everything, you’ll understand why I’ve tried to let you be without me these last few days. Why you’ll be better off without me.” He didn’t realize he was holding his breath. “After I’ve told you everything, I’ll disappear. You can go back to your regular life. I won’t bother you again.”

            Constance couldn’t have been more confused if she’d tried. Why would be want to be without him? What could he possibly have been through that would make him think she wouldn’t want him? And what could she possibly say to soothe him except to reassure him that she was absolutely going to stay?

            She slipped closer to him on the sofa, gently threading her fingers through his with a small smile. “You can tell me anything,” she repeated.

            Start at the beginning, he told himself.

            “You know I was military,” he decided to go all the way back to the beginning. All the way back was the only place to go. “I told you that much.” He pulled up one sleeve of his t-shirt to show her a small tattoo just on the inside of his bicep: a small stamp-like set of letters in green ink that read ‘Property of Orlais’. It was the decided antithesis of the chalice on his other arm. “My whole unit has them,” he explained, putting his sleeve back down.

            The breaths he had systematically be holding needed to be let go. He had to let go.

            “We were given the time and place to intercept a motorcade. Eliminate the target and get out. That was all.” He closed his eyes for a moment, hating how his voice was running hoarse. He was a stupid man – he always had been. She didn’t have to hear this. If he’d just let her be…but it was too late for that.

            “That’s what I told my men. Just eliminate the target. One man sacrificed for the sake of so many others. The fact was,” _Maker help me._ “It was my eyes on the target. It was me watching to make sure my men were in the right place, and to give them their order to move. It was a split-second decision: the man, a good man, a noble man – had his family with him. His wife, his children. And I still gave my men the ‘go’ order.” Blackwall put up his hand to stop her from speaking. “Let me finish,” he asked when he managed to open his mouth again. “I couldn’t stay,” with another deep, deep breath, he kept going. “It was a day or two later. No more. I took my things. I left no trace. I disappeared.” He couldn’t look her in the eyes, hadn’t been able to this entire time. “I took the name of a man who’d died, and I left everything behind.” He had no room left in him to be sad for what he’d done. He only had regret, and guilt, and the deep, bottomless pit in his stomach that was only filled by her – so he told her. “My name – my real name? Is Thom Rainier. Gordon Blackwall died honourably several years ago.”

            She’d never heard him choked up. Not once. Even on Christmas it had been nothing but quiet calm or smiling happiness. She’d seen him reserved, seen him hold back, but never seen him regretful. And now she understood why he’d covered his tracks. Kept it under wraps. Shielding her from it. She felt like curling into herself…it was too much to take in all at once. He had a literal entire life she didn’t know about. An entire other world to who he was.

            But he – the version of him that she knew – was a good man. A man with values who could be trusted and kept his word. A respectful man who was kind and helpful. A man who had said he loved her, and proved it through actions. And the man who she loved, as well.

            She moved a few inches closer to him on the couch. “Thank you.”

            That made him look at her. “I…what?”

            “Thank you for telling me,” she couldn’t hold back that she was a little confused and still processing his story, but she was smiling gently and looking at him so sweetly that he almost broke down and cried right there. “It can’t be easy to carry something like that on your own,” her voice was fully even. “Thank you for trusting me.”

            She was just sitting there, worrying her bottom lip with her top teeth and trying her best to be constantly reassuring. Constant Constance. He almost laughed at that – she had never been truer to her name than she was right now. After a few silent moments she smiled again and stood. He braced himself for it. Braced himself to see her put her jacket back on and walk out the door. He braced himself to lose her.

            But instead she turned around the little counter that led into his kitchen and opened the oven door.

            “This bread smells amazing,” she called, just loud enough for him to hear from the other side of the half wall. “Is it molasses and banana?”

            She didn’t even hear him come up behind her, so the squeak of surprise when he set both of his hands on her waist and spun her around was completely genuine. He descended on her with absolute hunger: as though kissing her was bringing him back to life. When he drew back, they were both short of breath.

            “You can’t think I was going to let you go?” She huffed out a breathless laugh – it was all she could manage. “Listen to me,” she swallowed heavily. “Thom….” Her heart lifted at the way his face changed at the sound of his real name. “Whoever you were before, this is who you are now. And who you are now? I love that man.” She beamed at him. “I love _you_. It doesn’t matter what your name is.”

            “It’s not that simple,” he insisted, but his arms were still wrapped tightly around her. “I can’t go back to being him. Thom Rainier is dead. And he has to stay that way. It’s…I’ll…Con, I’ll be in jail for the rest of my Void taken life or worse.”

            She nodded slowly, squeezing his arms in her little hands. “I know,” she agreed. “And if you never want me to say that name again, I won’t. But don’t think I’m going to let you go just because it’s a little scary.”

            “I—” He shook his head. What could he possibly say to this woman? She’d heard his story. The short version, anyway, and she’d simply accepted it. Accepted him. As simple as that. What else could he say? “I love you.”

            Constance simply smiled, kissed him again, and turned back around to open the oven again. “I didn’t even know you baked,” she teased, inhaling the scent of the spicy, sweet bread.

            “You’re lucky it’s practically done, otherwise all that airing it out would mess up the temperature,” he chided, taking the thick towel off of the counter and pulling the beautifully brown loaf out and leaving it on a rack to cool. He tidied up quickly, shutting off the oven and taking off his apron to leave on the counter.

            “Now,” he turned back to her again with a sly little grin. “Where were we?”

            She grinned back, slung her arms around his neck, and fitted her lips tightly against his. The heat of his hands seeped through her shirt, spreading through her skin and warming her right to her core. She tried to wriggle as close to him as she could, but squealed inelegantly when he lifted her clear off the ground and pinched his arms tightly under her thighs to hold her up against him. Her ankles crossed at the small of his back instinctually, holding on for support.

            “C’mon,” he murmured, never pulling his lips off her.

            He carried her as if she weighed nothing, down the tiny hallway and through the bedroom door, slamming it behind them with his foot.


End file.
